


Rebuilding That Which Was Lost

by von_gelmini



Series: Kinktober2019 [7]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Body Horror, Catheterization, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemas, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/von_gelmini/pseuds/von_gelmini
Summary: For Kinktober2019Prompt: 8.Prostitution/Sex Work| Sensory Deprivation |Gagging | Bonds (Telepathic or Empathic)There's an alternate POV version of this story,Outside the Eggshell. The whole story is a major spoiler for this one though.The enema/catheterization comes as a part of body care when the body is not allowed to take care of himself. It's not sexual.I really don't know how to tag this beyond how I did. It's deprogramming/reprogramming via sensory deprivation.(Don't read the note until you reach the end of the story. There there be spoilers.)





	Rebuilding That Which Was Lost

The last thing Peter remembered was finishing his Starbucks on his way to see Mister Stark for his internship. No. Not finishing it. Dropping it on the sidewalk as he passed out. No. Not passed out. Got dizzy. He remembered holding onto a signpost. He remembered sliding down it until he was on the sidewalk. Then… that was when he passed out. He was awake now. He was pretty sure. You didn’t have conscious thought when you were unconscious. There was only one problem. He couldn’t see or hear anything.

He felt something pressing on his face around his eyes. A blindfold probably. But it felt more like goggles than cloth. There wasn’t even a single pinprick of light. He had to have earplugs of some sort in because there wasn’t any sound but the rush of his own blood. Not even his pulse. Just a soft thrumming that meant his body was functioning. 

He could feel though. He felt big hands holding his arms. When he kicked and struggled, he felt big hands holding his ankles and he was carried horizontally. Or at least it felt… not standing… his equilibrium was off. He twisted and struggled but he was held firmly. Hands. More than four. Arms and wrists felt like one person, two hands on each. Ankles, one person, two hands on each. Torso? At least two hands there, but from one or two people he couldn’t tell. While he was held, a new set of hands undressed him. No. Cut his clothes off. He felt the dull scrape of metal… the back of scissors?… against his skin. He knew that he was entirely naked after because he felt hands remove the shreds of his clothes and then run themselves over his body. Over his _ entire _ body.

He’d been screaming the entire time. He couldn’t hear himself at all, but his throat was hoarse and his mouth was open and dry, so he had to have been screaming, right? His screams got fiercer when he was touched. Especially when he was touched in certain places that no one but him had touched.

He was vertical again but not able to struggle. He felt something cold close around one ankle. After, he couldn’t move that leg at all. The same was repeated to his other three limbs. He was shackled tightly but not to anything. Hands were able to touch both his front and his back. Warm water began to run over him. Not being dumped all at once, but like from one of those big fancy expensive rainshower things. There was also a shower spray directed at different parts of him. That must be one of those hand-held ones. He was washed everywhere except under the goggles. There were definitely two sets of hands doing it. One rough and big. One rougher and smaller. Eventually they were satisfied with his cleanliness because the rainfall stopped.

He screamed even louder when something cold and narrow and metal was pushed up his ass. He couldn’t hear his screams but the two men must. Whoever was anywhere near must. There had to be someone near.

Warm water came on, not _ over _ his body but _ in _ his body. He felt his belly swelling by being filled from the wrong end. Fuller and fuller and fuller until it hurt and he felt like he was going to pop. He tried to hold it in because the thought of not holding it in was disgusting. Disgusting or not, the thing inside of him was removed and his body answered the question for him. It was coming out. Rough/big hands pushed on hard his belly, forcing the water out. When it stopped coming out, the metal tube was put back in and the water turned on again. He was filled seven or eight times (he lost count) before they stopped running water into him. 

Rougher/smaller hands held his cock. Not doing anything, just holding it. He started to scream again and struggle when he felt a cold something push into his opening there. It went deeper and deeper until he felt warm wetness on his leg. The tube in the tip of his cock was slid back out and the handheld shower sprayed down his leg washing off his pee.

His body and his hair were toweled dry and then no hands touched him anywhere. He hung there shackled, wrists and ankles. He was neither cold nor hot. It felt like a long time, but instinctively he knew it probably wasn’t. Time was distorted when you didn’t have any visual cues. He started mentally counting, trying to do the ‘seconds’ count, adding minutes into it every time he hit sixty. He lost the count somewhere around forty five minutes. He tried starting again and lost it sooner. Disorientation was making counting at all, even only to sixty, difficult. 

He kept screaming, on and off. He was crying, on and off. The blindfold goggles irritated. There was a hand on his face. The scrape of metal scissors on the side of his head. The goggles fell away but he still couldn’t see anything. Nothing else happened. He had absolutely no idea for how long. He gave up screaming. He gave up crying.

At some point he felt an uncomfortable pull on his wrists. His ankles felt tight. Both were released and he fell. The ground he fell on was neither cold nor warm nor too hard. Though when his fingers scrambled against it there was no kind of padding to be pulled up. He crawled around hoping to feel the things he was chained to but there was nothing there. He still couldn’t hear. He reached up to his ears but there were no plugs. He tried to remember if he’d felt something removed from them when his blindfold had been cut free. He tried to remember if he’d heard something then. But by the time he was unblindfolded, his perceptions had become distorted.

Peter crawled around the entire room. Or what he thought was the entire room. There were no corners, no edges to go by. It felt like he was inside an eggshell. And every time he tried to measure — distance, time, anything — he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts were betraying him. 

Severely betraying him. He heard whispering voices. He jumped, startled and afraid. The voices didn’t ever last for very long, but they came back. Sometimes he thought he saw shadows, darker black shades of absolute blackness. Sometimes they were with the voices, sometimes on their own. He’d go from feeling almost normal to feeling a pounding fear like he had never known. Something was watching him. Something evil. He wasn’t even sure he believed in evil on that scale. Every bad guy, even Thanos, had been a hero in his own mind. Their malevolence was justified by plain old psychology and fucked-up morality. This was Nolan-Batman-Joker levels of senseless evil for evil’s sake. And it passed. Nothing ever stayed and yet nothing ever went away. 

Peter thought he slept but wasn’t sure if it was unconsciousness because he remembered no dreams. He was _ fairly _ certain that it was unconsciousness because other than a vague persistent sense of hunger, his body never needed tending to. Of course, perhaps not enough time had passed for it to need that. 

The light started out as a faint pinprick. Something to focus his eyes on. It had a real-ness about it that the hallucinations didn’t. After a time, it grew into an almost-glow. It stayed at that level awhile longer. At the next level he could make out the room. It was large and yes, almost egg shaped. The surfaces were covered in something black and slightly yielding but not soft and still unable to be marred. He could see his body. He was naked. His fingernails were bloody and torn. The light brightened again to almost the level of a single candle in a large room. He was always given more than enough time for his eyes to adjust before the brightness increased, but it never seemed like very long before it did. When it reached the level of a soft lamp he heard sound.

“Hello Peter.” The voice came from no discernable direction. I was enveloping. It was smooth, calm, male, and familiar. He knew it but he couldn’t place it.

“Hello.” His voice was raw and didn’t sound right to his ears.

“How do you feel?”

“Where am I? Who are you? What is this?”

“I’m sorry. Not yet.”

The light and sound went away. Timeless time passed.

“Hello Peter.” The same voice from everywhere around him.

“Hello.”

“How do you feel?” It was repeating, but somehow didn’t strike Peter as a recording. The cadence and precise tone of the speech was different.

“I want to go home.”

“I’m sorry. Not yet.”

The hallucinations were worse this time. More persistent. Less moments of darkness. The darkness was peaceful but never ever enough to chase away the fear.

“Hello Peter.”

“Hello.” His voice broke. He tried to get closer to the man’s voice, chasing it as it slid around the room.

“Are you lonely?”

“Not now. Please stay?”

“I’m sorry. Not yet.”

Peter heard himself scream this time. He heard himself cry. He did both until he couldn’t do either anymore. Enough time passed that he could do both again. The cycle cycled until he had no perception of his own sounds or his own moist cheeks.

“Hello Peter.”

He didn’t answer but slid around the womb-like floor in search of the man’s voice. His arms grasped out pleadingly.

“Hello.” The voice came again. 

Something was missing. He didn’t know what.

“I’m sorry. Not yet.” The voice went away.

There was no light but there was a touch. He leaned into it.

“I’m sorry. Not yet.” The touch and the voice went away.

There was no light but there was a touch was followed by “Hello.”

He didn’t know the voice. Both touch and sound went away.

There was no light but there was a touch. “Hello.” More touch, longer, over more of his body. He was still. “You are my thing.” They went away again. The loss was painful. He didn’t know much but he knew that had never known such pain.

There was no light but there was a sound. “This is my voice.” The sound was the same as always. “This is my command.” The sound was harsher. “This is my question?” The sound rose higher at the end.

There was no light but there was a sound. “A voice must be listened to.” The sound was the same as always. “A command must be obeyed.” The sound was harsher. “A question must be answered?” The sound rose higher at the end. 

There was no light but there was a long touch. Every part of him was touched. “A listened to voice brings touch.”

There was no light but there was a painful touch. “A disobeyed command brings pain.”

There was no light but there was a painful touch. “An unanswered question brings pain.”

There was light. There was touch. “Hello my thing. When my thing has been good. I may call my thing Peter.” The touch suddenly brought the exact opposite of pain. “When Peter has been very good Peter may feel pleasure if it pleases me to give it to him.” The voice was where his thing, Peter, could see him. “Do you recognize me Peter?” The man smiled. “I see that you do. Do you know who I am?” The man smiled again. “I see that you don’t.” The voice was a command. “Crawl to me.” Peter crawled to the man. Obeying the command brought Peter a soft touch. “Use your voice. Say ‘Yes sir’.”

It took Peter awhile but the man didn’t cause pain. Peter’s voice was quiet, unfamiliar, rough with disuse. “Yes sir.”

“Good Peter.” The man’s hand touched his face. Peter knew that the touch was called a caress. The man reached down and touched Peter’s stomach. Peter knew what things were but he didn’t know how he knew. “Do you have pain here that I didn’t cause?”

It was a question. Questions needed to be answered. He’d been given two words but he knew one word had another that was the opposite. “Yes sir.”

“When you ask you will be given something to eat to take away the pain.” The man left out of a door.

“May I have something to eat?” He had more words that hadn’t been given to him but he knew them.

A smaller door at the bottom of the larger door opened. Bread was pushed in. It had a wonderful smell. Peter ate it. Peter slept. He dreamed of the man. He dreamed of food.

The voice was around him again. “You may have one of two things. Whichever you choose you will get again. The other you will not.”

“Yes sir.”

“You may have my touch. You may have bread.”

“Bread.”

Bread arrived at the little door. There was time between it, time for Peter to sleep. More bread arrived regularly without asking. There was dark sleep too. His body never needed care beyond bread.

Peter cried. 

He cried more when he ate. 

He cried a lot when he ate. 

When the little door opened, he didn’t touch the bread. It was left there. He didn’t touch the bread. He slept. The bread was still there. He felt pain again in his stomach. He dark-slept. The bread was there. He didn’t touch the bread. The pain on his body was worse than the pain in his stomach. Peter cried until he slept.

There was light. There was touch. “Hello Peter.” The man smiled. “You were very good.” The man lifted him into his lap. He pressed his lips to Peter’s forehead. “Do you want to leave me?”

It was a question but it made no sense. He knew ‘leave’ meant to be away from the man. Further away than the bread had brought him. “No sir.” Peter was afraid and he hurt to think of being away from the man. Who was so comforting. Who looked and sounded so familiar.

“You can call me Mister Stark.” 

“Yes Mister Stark.” The name was pleasurable when he said it, but it wasn’t quite right. Saying the name made the man — Mister Stark — smile. 

“I missed you Peter,” Mister Stark said. His blue eyes were very bright. 

**Author's Note:**

> SIM Iron Man lost his Peter. So he found a universe with a vulnerable, soft, untainted version of his boy. Then Tony built himself another Peter.
> 
> * * *
> 
> My Starker blog on tumblr is [starker-stories](https://starker-stories.tumblr.com/).  
Come on by and visit.


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